


Irretrievable Breakdown

by sarahyyy



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Boys Are Dumb, Divorce, Established Relationship, M/M, Reconciliation, unnecessary manpain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 05:17:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1375171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahyyy/pseuds/sarahyyy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We fought,” Enjolras says quietly. “We were angry and yelling and he said that he wanted a divorce, and I said-” He breaks off and clenches his hands into fists, hands that have started to tremble. “I said <i>good</i>. I said I don’t know how we even lasted this long.”</p><p>(Or, the one where nobody really wants a divorce.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Irretrievable Breakdown

Bahorel curses when Grantaire tells him. 

“I’m going to punch his face in,” Bahorel snarls. “I’m going to punch his face in with a chair.”

The corner of Grantaire’s lips tip up slightly. “That’s not what I need you for,” he says.

“Did you already kill him?” Bahorel asks, squinting slightly at him. “Do you need someone to help with dumping the body? Because you don’t have to ask me for that, I’d volunteer.”

That startles a laugh out of Grantaire. “I didn’t kill him, Bahorel. He didn’t- It’s not his fault.”

“Then what-” Bahorel trails off before his face lightens up with understanding. Grantaire is in his office. Grantaire never comes to his office. “No.”

“Bahorel-”

“ _No_ ,” Bahorel says, and he’s never hated being a lawyer as much as he does right now. He never wanted to do this, actually really fucking hates his job, but he’s good at it, good at turning the hurt he can see in his client’s eyes and turning it into something powerful, something that can hurt, something like a punch. He doesn’t want to do this now, doesn’t want to see Grantaire as The Client, and turn his years of love and adoration for Enjolras into a strategy for division of marital property and maintenance. “I’m not helping you petition for the divorce.”

“It’s a really easy job,” Grantaire says, and his tone is light, and he still has that half-smile on his face, but Bahorel has seen enough people with that same look in their eyes to know it for the smokescreen it is. “I don’t even want anything from him. He can keep the house, he can keep everything.”

Bahorel’s scowl is involuntary, because he might not like being a divorce attorney, but he is good at his fucking job. “Then what do you get out of this?”

“The satisfaction that I was right all along,” Grantaire says, quiet and sad, the half-smile fading as he speaks. Grantaire is stripped down in front of him, hiding nothing from him, and after so many years of friendship, the fact that Grantaire trusts him so much still hits Bahorel as strongly as the first time Grantaire had sat down next to him when they were in high school, bumped his shoulder to his and told him that he liked boys, and that he would understand if it made Bahorel uncomfortable and Bahorel wanted to stop being his friend. “It was never going to last.”

Bahorel hears the hurt in Grantaire’s voice, sees the pain in his eyes, and feels his dejection in the slope of his shoulders, and he’s angry at Enjolras, suddenly. He’s so fucking angry he could smash Enjolras’ face in, with a chair, like he told Grantaire he would earlier, but he has promises to keep, promises of holding his anger back and channeling it into more useful matters, promises to _Grantaire_ , incidentally. He knows what he has to do, and he really doesn’t want to do this, but he swallows the lump in his throat, and says, “I’ll do it.”

—

Combeferre comes back to the apartment he shares with Courfeyrac to find Enjolras sitting on the couch, staring straight ahead stonily. He hasn’t done this in a long time; he has a spare key to the apartment, but he rarely ever comes over to the apartment without at least a courtesy text to him or Courfeyrac.

Combeferre busies himself with setting his things down, and then heading into the kitchen to make tea, because Enjolras is always more agreeable with tea. He frowns when he comes back to the living room and Enjolras still hasn’t seemed to have moved, but it isn’t entirely unusual, so he just sets both mugs on the coffee table, sits next to Enjolras, and waits for him to talk.

“I got something in the mail this morning,” Enjolras says finally, and his voice is gravelly, scratchy, like it’s been awhile since he spoke. 

Combeferre and Courfeyrac both left for work early this morning, and Combeferre wonders briefly if Enjolras has been here since whatever mail it was he received that has him so shaken up. 

“And?” Combeferre prompts, when Enjolras doesn’t continue, just stares at his hands, lips pinched in a tiny frown. He looks…lost, and Combeferre is taken aback because he can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen this exact expression on Enjolras’ face. 

Enjolras reaches for the suit jacket he has carelessly slung over the arm of the couch. The envelope he pulls out from one of the pockets is one that Combeferre recognises. _Loyrette, Bahorel, Bichot & Associés_. He takes the letter from Enjolras when he passes it over. 

“Enjolras, are you-”

“Read it,” Enjolras tells him.

Combeferre does, the dread in the pit of his stomach growing, settling, and anchoring itself deeply, as he reads on. “Christ,” Combeferre says when he finishes. “What happened?”

“We fought,” Enjolras says quietly. “We were angry and yelling and he said that he wanted a divorce, and I said-” He breaks off and clenches his hands into fists, hands that have started to tremble. “I said _good_. I said I don’t know how we even lasted this long.”

Combeferre draws in a sharp breath, and Enjolras crumbles at that. 

“I don’t know why I said that,” Enjolras breathes out, and Combeferre puts a hand on his knee, hoping that it would ground Enjolras, like it always does. “I didn’t mean to. I can’t lose him, Combeferre, I can’t-”

He is interrupted by the front door opening and Courfeyrac cheerfully announcing, “I’m home!” His grin dies when he sees Combeferre and Enjolras on the couch.

He drops his briefcase, loses his jacket and tie, and takes his place on the other side of Enjolras on the couch. 

Combeferre passes Courfeyrac the letter, and Courfeyrac reads it silently. He sets the letter on the coffee table when he’s done with it, shifts closer to Enjolras, and wraps his arm around Enjolras’ shoulders. “It’s going to be fine,” he tells Enjolras, voice soft but firm. 

Combeferre squeezes Enjolras’ knee, says, “You can fix this.”

And in that moment, sitting between Combeferre and Courfeyrac, Enjolras finds breathing comes to him just that bit easier.

—

 **From: Enjolras**  
R, I’m sorry, please, can we talk?

 **From: Enjolras**  
Please pick up the phone.

 **From: Enjolras**  
R, please, I’m sorry.

—

Eponine cuffs Grantaire on the head when he shows up at her apartment late evening. “27 messages, 15 missed calls,” she grits out, even as she moves back to let him into the apartment. “I thought you were dead.”

Grantaire sighs. “I left my phone at home.”

“For two days?” Eponine asks, still scowling. “Are you in one of your moods again? Is it another art block? Because we’ve talked about this, Grantaire, you don’t go through it alone, you come to me, and we eat ice cream and bitch about brush strokes and colours and all that jazz. Or well, you bitch about brush strokes and colours, and I nod my head and patronise you where I can-”

“I haven’t been home in two days,” Grantaire tells Eponine softly, effectively shutting her up.

“What happened?” Eponine asked.

Grantaire doesn’t say anything, but the twist of his lips is sad and _wrong_ , and Eponine feels the urge to wrap him up in blankets and protect him from the world. She hasn’t seen him like this in a long time, not since they started hanging out with Les Amis a billion years ago. Or, okay, that’s not exactly accurate. Less after they started hanging out with Les Amis, and not once since Grantaire and Enjolras got together.

“Enjolras and I are getting a divorce,” Grantaire tells her.

Eponine gapes. 

“Don’t overreact,” Grantaire says in a rush, and then swallows. “Don’t react at all, please? Because if you do, I think I might spend the day crying, and that’s really the last thing I want to do right now.” He tries for a laugh, but it sounds hollow, and Eponine can see how furiously he’s trying to blink the tears back. “I’m sorry for coming here. I know you have that thing with Montparnasse, but I just- It was either here or the bar to see if Joly and Bossuet are keeping Musichetta company, and I didn’t think that I would be able to stop myself from drinking-”

“Okay,” Eponine interrupts him mid-babble. “Okay,” she repeats, trying for calmness and hoping she hits it because Grantaire needs her to be strong for him right now, and that’s what she’s going to do. She can pretend that he’s just here to bitch about his art block, she can do that for him. “I’ll get the ice cream.”

Grantaire smiles at her gratefully. “And I’ll put on a movie.”

—

 **From: Courfeyrac**  
R?

 **From: Combeferre**  
Talk to him, please. You know him. You know sometimes he says things he doesn’t mean in the heat of the moment. 

**From: Courfeyrac**  
Are you okay? Enjolras isn’t. :( He’s v sad and v sorry for being an emotionally constipated idiot. Please talk to him? I’ll even make him say those exact words, promise.

—

“He’s at Eponine’s,” Courfeyrac tells him. “He’s upset, won’t see anyone, but he’s there, and he’s okay.”

Enjolras lets out a breathe he hadn’t known he was holding. He has been so worried. Grantaire hasn’t been home in 3 days. Enjolras knows because Enjolras has been waiting for him, not leaving his place on the living room couch, the ratty, lumpy thing that Grantaire refuses to let him replace.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac weren’t really sure about letting him go back home to his own apartment when it seemed like he was still so shaken about the whole thing, but Enjolras hadn’t wanted to stay at their apartment, because what if Grantaire went back home and couldn’t find Enjolras there? What would Grantaire think?

“I need to go and see him,” Enjolras says, getting up from the couch. “I need to—”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Combeferre tells him gently. “I think you need to give him some time to calm down. You’re both hotheaded and rash, give it more time.”

Enjolras scrubs a face over his hand. “My marriage is hanging on the line, I’m not going to argue with him,” he snaps at Combeferre. “I’m going to apologise. I need to apologise. He needs to know I didn’t mean it, he needs to know I don’t want a divorce.”

“Give it time,” Combeferre says again, and Combeferre’s never led him astray before, and Enjolras should trust him, he should listen to him, but he can’t, because he made a mess out of this, out of his _marriage_ , and he needs to fix it right now because nothing else matters more than making things right between him and Grantaire.

“I can’t,” he whispers. 

Combeferre frowns. “Why?”

“I can’t give him more time to think about divorcing me.” 

And that’s the gist of it, isn’t it? He’s an awful husband. He’s always cancelling on dates and forgetting anniversaries. He’s bad at being romantic and doesn’t like flaunting their relationship in public. He misses Grantaire’s gallery showcases and is home late six out of seven days. He doesn’t care enough for Grantaire, wait, that’s not right, he doesn’t _show_ that he cares enough for Grantaire. 

He can’t give Grantaire more time to think about this, because the longer he thinks about it, the more he will be sure that he’s making the right decision, and Enjolras— God, he wouldn’t be able to take it. 

He only realises that he’s crying when both Combeferre and Courfeyrac put their arms around him.

“I don’t want a divorce,” Enjolras chokes out. “I love him.”

Courfeyrac sighs and presses a kiss to Enjolras’ hair. “We know.”

—

Marius splutters. “You want me to _what_?”

“Represent Enjolras,” Combeferre repeats. “I just need you to buy them both a bit of time, give them time to calm down and think this through. Write Bahorel a letter back, say that Enjolras doesn’t consent to a divorce. Write that Grantaire has no grounds to ask for a divorce.”

Marius scans through the letter again. “The letter is a notice to inform that they will be filing for a petition for separation of bed-and-board based on irretrievable breakdown of marriage,” he says, sounding thoughtful. “I could ask for further and better particulars.”

Combeferre nods. “Do that.”

“Bahorel is not technically obliged to give any particulars, though,” Marius informs him. “A petition to reside separately does not have to be backed with grounds of divorce.”

“What’s going to happen, then?” Combeferre asks. 

“After the petition to reside separately, there will be a reconciliation proceeding, failing which, the judge will issue a Non-Reconciliation Order, and then Grantaire can go ahead to file for a unilateral petition for divorce.” Marius frowns. “It would have to be a fault-based divorce.”

“Meaning?”

“Generally, adultery and cruelty,” Marius says, still frowning, “but Enjolras has never been cruel to Grantaire, nor has he ever cheated on him, and Bahorel knows that. I think with Enjolras’ workaholic tendencies, Bahorel will be going for neglect, which won’t be wrong, exactly, seeing as how he likes to work late nights and—”

Combeferre sighs. “Marius.”

Marius winces. “Sorry,” he says, turning a shade of red, “I didn’t mean— I’m sure Enjolras loves Grantaire very much, and cares for him a lot. I’ll do what I can. I won’t really be able to stop Grantaire from wanting to move out, but I’ll bring out all the technicalities, nitpick his petition as much as possible, to slow the proceedings?”

Combeferre smiles gratefully. “Thank you, Marius.”

—

 **From: Gav**  
R U DVORCING DAD #2, DAD #1

 **To: Gav**  
i’m not your dad ffs.

 **From: Gav**  
BUT WAI

 **To: Gav**  
why i’m not your dad? gee, do we need to have a serious talk?

 **From: Gav**  
D: U KNOW WHAT I M TALKING ABT

 **To: Gav**  
it was the right time.

 **From: Gav**  
THERE IS NO RIGHT TIME TO DIVORCE D: 

**To: Gav**  
there is for us.

—

“How’s he doing?” Combeferre asks.

Eponine shrugs. “He stays in the room a lot, doesn’t really say much. He doesn’t really want to talk about it, and I respect that. I’m not going to push him to talk about it, or plead on Enjolras’ behalf, so if that’s what you’re here for—”

Combeferre shakes his head. “I’m not here for that,” he assures her. “I was just worried. I wanted to see how he was doing.”

“Not good,” Eponine summarises for him. “But he could be worse. How’s Enjolras?”

“Upset,” Combeferre says. “Very much so. He’s been crying.”

Eponine sighs. “Grantaire too,” she admits. “I don’t call him out on it, but I hear him. He’s sad, Combeferre.”

“They both are,” Combeferre says.

—

“Grantaire. Grantaire, don’t hang up, please, don’t hang up, just listen to me, please.” 

Grantaire swallows, feels his eyes well up with tears, and has to fight every urge in himself not to hang up on Enjolras. Enjolras sounds gravelly, sounds tired, sounds just like him, and Grantaire doesn’t know what to make of this.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras’ voice comes through, a hint of desperation laced through his words. “R, are you still there?”

Grantaire lets out a breath. “What do you want?”

“R, I’m sorry,” Enjolras says, voice still small and desperate and _not him_. “I’m sorry. I never meant to say any of those things, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Grantaire steels himself, because Enjolras is getting cold feet about the divorce, he’s probably feeling bad for Grantaire, and Grantaire won’t let him make a bad decision just because he wants to keep Enjolras to himself. It was always coming, Grantaire knew it would be coming. That he managed to keep Enjolras for five years has already exceeded all expectations, he needs to let Enjolras go. 

He can do this, for Enjolras’ sake.

“I’m not,” he says, and the sharp breath that Enjolras takes goes straight through his heart like a dagger. “I’m not sorry I asked for a divorce, Enjolras.”

“R, please—”

 _I don’t deserve you_ , Grantaire wants to say. He wants to cry the words out, wants to sob them and listen to Enjolras tell him that he’s wrong. He wants to go home, wants to go home to his husband, but he can’t, because he has to make the right choice for Enjolras.

So he says instead, “I don’t want this anymore.” Pauses, takes a breath. “I don’t love you anymore.” Runs a hand over his face to wipe his tears away, tries and fails to stop his heart from breaking. “Don’t call me again.”

He hangs up.

It is a moment before he slides against the wall to the ground and heaves his first sob. He doesn’t stop until Eponine comes home.

—

“— _Grantaire_ asked me to, I couldn’t say no—”

“—did you think about what this would do to Enjolras—”

“—if you’d seen his face, Feuilly, I swear—”

“—he isn’t doing well, he’s been coped up at home, Courfeyrac’s been staying with him—”

“—oh, like Grantaire is doing much better, hiding out at Eponine’s? He doesn’t even dare to go home—”

“—Enjolras didn’t mean it, we all know what he’s like when he’s in a mood—”

“Grantaire is my best friend,” Bahorel snaps. “He’s hurt and he’s upset, and Enjolras is the one who did this to him, so I’m fucking sorry that I cannot find it in myself to empathise with the man who’s making my best friend feel like he’s shit.”

Feuilly’s frown speaks volumes. “It’s not right for us to take sides.”

“He came to my office,” Bahorel grits out, “sat in the chair opposite mine, and told me that _he knew it was always coming_.” He has to remember to keep his temper in check. He feels like breaking something right now, but he can’t, because Feuilly would be disappointed. “They’ve been married for five years, and all these time, Grantaire’s been waiting for a divorce to happen. That isn’t right, Feuilly, you know that isn’t right. I couldn’t say no.”

“I don’t want them to get a divorce,” Feuilly admits quietly, sinking to the couch. 

Bahorel sighs and settles down next to Feuilly. “I know,” he says. “Me too.”

—

_Attention: M. Bahorel_

_Re: Separation proceedings of M. Enjolras and M. Grantaire_

_I have received notice that you will be filing for separation of bed-and-board on the grounds of irretrievable breakdown of the marriage._

_My client has instructed me to ask for further and better particulars, and has further expressed that he does not wish for his marriage to your client to be dissolved, and would like your client’s cooperation in attending marriage therapy sessions, the details of which I have enclosed._

_Sincerely,_  
Marius Pontmercy  
(Pontmercy  & Associés) 

—

Jehan looks green when Courfeyrac opens the door to let him in. 

“R sent me here,” Jehan manages to say, and he looks three steps closer to vomiting, and that wouldn’t do, because Enjolras has just managed to doze off on the couch after staying awake for so long, so Courfeyrac takes Jehan by the elbow and shepherds him to the kitchen and makes him some tea. 

“He just fell asleep,” Courfeyrac explains to Jehan, voice low. “He spoke to Grantaire, and it didn’t exactly go well.”

“I know,” Jehan says, looking miserable. “I’m supposed to give this back to Enjolras,” Jehan continues, and pulls out— God.

“Christ,” Courfeyrac swears softly, so as to not wake Enjolras up. “That’s his wedding ring, isn’t it?”

Jehan nods stiffly. “I told him not to,” he says. “I told him to give Enjolras another chance, but he—”

“He means it,” Courfeyrac breathes. “He means it.” 

Jehan’s face crumples. “He wouldn’t listen, Courf, I swear I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t listen to me.”

“He’s actually going to do it,” Courfeyrac says, stunned. “He’s actually going to divorce Enjolras.”

The crash of glass hitting the ground makes them both swivel over to the doorway. 

“Enjolras—” Courfeyrac starts, voice soft and gentle.

Enjolras doesn’t look away from the table. “Is that Grantaire’s ring?”

“Enjolras—” Jehan tries.

“Is that Grantaire’s ring?” Enjolras repeats, loud and sharp, still not looking away from the ring on the table. 

“Yes,” Courfeyrac says. “Look, you can still fix this, you can still—”

“I think,” Enjolras interrupts, voice terrifyingly calm. “I think I need to be alone right now.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Courfeyrac tells him.

Enjolras’ gaze snaps to Courfeyrac. “I wasn’t asking.”

—

He could do it.

It would be so easy to do it, to just uncork the bottle and drink, drink until everything starts to blur together, and nothing hurts.

He’s been sober for four years now, hasn’t really had the urge to drink in awhile now, even used to joke that he’s practically forgotten what it’s like to drink. (It’s a lie, though, because when you’ve been so dependent on something for so long, you never forget what it feels like.)

He could do it, he thinks. Going through a divorce is justifiable cause. Losing the love of your life is a justifiable cause. He could do it and none of his friends would blame him for it. Sure, Jehan and Feuilly would be incredibly disappointed, and Eponine would definitely have choice words to say about it when she gets home from her shift at the diner, and Enjolras—

Enjolras would give him that sad, disappointed look but not actually say anything about it. Enjolras would blame himself for it, would feel guilty for making Grantaire break his sobriety.

He puts the bottle back down on the table and texts Joly and Bossuet for help.

“We can talk about this, or we can not talk about this,” Bossuet says when they arrive, both of them plopping down onto the couch on beside Grantaire.

“We’re both fine with either,” Joly says, passing Grantaire a can.

“Is that root beer?” Grantaire asks, cracking a faint smile.

“It seemed fitting,” Joly tells him. He frowns when he catches sight of Grantaire’s hand, noticing the lack of his ring.

Grantaire sighs, settles more comfortably against the couch, and says, “Let’s not talk about this.”

—

“You’ve reached Enjolras. I can’t come to the phone right now. Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

_“Enjolras, it’s Courf. Are you alright?”_

_“*BEEP* Hey, me again. We’re all worried, call me back?”_

_“*BEEP* E, are you okay? ‘Ferre and I can drop by if you need us. You don’t have to be alone.”_

_“*BEEP* We’re all really worried about you, can you text me back so I know you’re okay?”_

—

Grantaire opens the door thinking that it’s Bossuet or Joly knocking. They’d only just left about five minutes ago to pick Musichetta up from work, and knowing Bossuet, he’s probably realised that he left his keys behind or something. 

It’s not Bossuet. 

“Can we talk?” Enjolras asks, voice hoarse, rim of his eyes red and puffy. “I know you don’t want to talk to me right now, but can we talk, please?”

Grantaire should shut the door on him. Enjolras won’t force his way in, would probably leave if Grantaire asked him to. Grantaire should ask him to leave, should stop himself from _feeling_ , but he cannot, it’s physically impossible for him to deny Enjolras anything, so he steps aside to let Enjolras in. 

“I don’t want a divorce,” Enjolras says the moment Grantaire closes the door and turns around. He takes Grantaire’s hand in his. “I don’t want a divorce, R.”

Grantaire forces himself to jerk his hand out of Enjolras’, forces himself not to look at the wedding band on Enjolras’ fingers and wish that his finger didn’t feel so empty without his ring. “Too bad,” he says, steeling himself. He can be the bad guy. He can break Enjolras’ heart for Enjolras’ good, he can.

Enjolras’ face falls. “I don’t—” He takes a shaky breath. Grantaire can see how his eyes are welling up with tears and he feels awful, feels wretched, but he has to do this, has to do this for Enjolras. “I don’t know what I did wrong,” Enjolras says. “Tell me what I did wrong, tell me how to fix this. I can fix this, I promise I can make this right, just tell me how, tell me what to do.”

“You can’t do anything,” Grantaire says with a sigh. “There’s nothing to fix.”

“There must be something!” Enjolras cries, desperate. “We fight all the time, and I say things I don’t mean all the time, and you know I don’t mean them, you know I never mean them, but it’s different this time, why is it different this time? _What did I do?_ ” 

Grantaire cracks. “If not this time, it was going to be another time,” he says, hating the way his voice comes out shaky and unsure and hurt. “It was always going to happen, we were never going to last.”

Enjolras stares at him. “What are you talking about?” 

“I don’t deserve you,” Grantaire says. “I never deserved you, but you wanted me anyway and I was selfish, so I kept you, kept you for longer than I expected to, than I should, and one day you’re going to wake up and realise that I don’t deserve you, that we fight too much, that I’m too contradictory, that we’re too _different_ , that you deserve so much better than me, and it’s going to be over anyway, and I…” he trails off, the words getting clogged up in his throat. His eyes sting with the effort of keeping his tears in, so he doesn’t bother to anymore, lets them fall freely, because Enjolras knows now, there’s no point in pretending that it doesn’t hurt him to leave Enjolras.

Enjolras steps towards him, pulls him in gently and wraps his arms around him, and Grantaire gives in, gives in to the warmth of Enjolras’ body, gives in to the comfort of being in his arms. 

“We’re going to fight all the time,” Enjolras says quietly by his ear. “We’re never going to stop squabbling over the stupidest things, and it’s going to get awful sometimes, we’re both going to yell at each other a lot, but that doesn’t mean that I’m going to love you any less.” His arms tighten around Grantaire. “I love you, and I know you love— Please say you still love me?”

“I do,” Grantaire breathes out, the tight feeling in his chest loosening. “I do, so much. So, so much.”

“Good,” Enjolras says. “I love you, and you love me, and this whole divorce idea is stupid, this whole _I’m going to leave you someday_ thing is stupid, because God, R, you’re the most important person in my life, you’ve been the most important person for years now, I’m not going to leave you, not ever. I wouldn’t know what to do without you, you’re so important to me, you must know that.” He pulls away from Grantaire, rummages through his pocket and pulls out Grantaire’s wedding ring. “I don’t want a divorce,” Enjolras says again, voice firm and eyes serious. “Not now, not ever.”

Grantaire nods, and when Enjolras slips the band back onto his finger, Grantaire feels complete again, doesn’t feel like he’s missing a part of himself anymore. 

—

“I was _this close_ to quitting my practice,” Bahorel says with an exaggerated sigh. “If you’d actually made me go through the whole thing, I think that’d have been enough to put me off the job for good. I could’ve been a free man.”

Grantaire snorts from where he’s practically sitting in Enjolras’ lap. “You secretly like being a lawyer,” he tells Bahorel, and then turns to press his face into Enjolras’ neck, just because he can. 

He’s missed this. 

“I love you,” Enjolras tells him, and Grantaire can hear the smile in his voice.

Eponine mimes gagging. “The both of you are horrible. This whole divorce-scare was horrible.”

Cosette nods. “Marius was so stressed out he almost cried,” she tells them, and presses her lips to Marius’ when he turns red. 

“Never do this to us again,” Courfeyrac says from beside Combeferre. The others all nod in agreement. 

“Never,” Enjolras and Grantaire say together, sharp and loud. 

Grantaire presses his forehead against Enjolras’ softly, and then says again, softer, “Never.”

Enjolras smiles. “Good.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [here](http://sarah-yyy.tumblr.com) on Tumblr, come say hi! :D


End file.
